"Mary's death is my fault."

Molly reached for Sherlock's hand in the cab but he pulled it away. He may as well have stabbed her in the heart. She folded her trembling hands back together in her lap and stared down at them.

"It's not your fault. How can it be your fault?" Her voice shook.

"Molly, don't be dense," he bit out.

She fell silent. She bit the inside of her lip to prevent it from trembling. The knife twisted deeper.

"I have been lost in the weeds for far too long," he muttered to no one in particular. "Ill-advised. Misdirected. Distracted."

Molly winced and gulped down tears. What an incredibly long day it had been with emotional swings that had come at her like severe turbulence. It was now past 1 am and the sky outside the cab was blacker than black as if all natural light had gone out of the world. She was feeling thin and strained. Sherlock had been ice cold to her since the moment they found out about Mary's death earlier that evening. Distracted? He must blame her in some part for Mary's passing. She was gutted because she too had lost Mary. When she closed her eyes, she could see her face as it had been when they spoke at the baby shower – kind, concerned, but most of all optimistic about life. It didn't seem fair that Mary, a new mother and loving wife, should die while Molly Hooper got to go on enjoying whatever it was she called a life.

Soon, they were stopped in front of the Connaught. Molly glared out the window at the opulent hotel. The glow from its rows of lights and warmly lit windows beckoned but she knew no comfort was contained within. Only fantasy hid behind its walls and that was all it would ever be. Sherlock's frosty demeanor and choice of words were quickly dispelling any hope she had for more. Molly felt her hackles raise. Perhaps she was the source of his distraction but she would not be his punching bag. She loved him, he was a great man, but he was wrong to make her feel like a spent tissue.

"Well, have a grand time here, Mr. Holmes."

His head whipped in her direction. "What are you talking about?"

"I too need to get out of the weeds, so to speak. I am going home."

"You are not!"

"I am."

"Molly . . ."

"No, you listen, Sherlock Holmes. I am thirty-four years old. I'm an adult and I actually do not belong to you. I have just had the privilege of outliving another person in my life and I want to go home. I want to see my cat and wear my pajamas and eat my goddamn ice cream a-and cry, fucking c-cry!"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. He stared at her a moment then rapped on the glass partition separating them from the driver. The driver slid it open.

"That'll be 15 quid."

"Change of plans, we are going to 47 Sampson street."

"Suit yourself."

Molly huffed in breath. "You are not staying with me."

He seemed ready for an argument but only squinted and wrinkled his nose once. "Clearly."

Five minutes later they pulled up in front of Molly's apartment building. She looked at Sherlock before she exited the cab but he was busy on his phone. She hesitated, wishing he would do something to show he cared, even a longing look would be welcomed at this point but he was occupied composing a text. She thought she saw his cheek twitch and his finger tremor against the screen of his phone as she studied him but each passed in such a flash she couldn't be sure what she saw.

"The meter is running," Sherlock said gruffly.

His tactless words stung like a glass of water thrown in her face. She grabbed a wad of bills, threw them on the seat and stumbled out of the cab onto the sidewalk as it sped away. She tripped as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Vaguely, she heard something from her bag clatter to the ground but she could only stare after the cab with tears in her eyes. She ached for Sherlock, even now, but he never did anything in half-measures including shredding her heart.

"Oy, Miss?"

Molly turned her head searching for the sound of the voice.

"Miss?"

She found herself looking into the eyes of the homeless man who used the lane next to her flat his home. She wiped away tears as she watched his hand extend. She experienced a moment of panic just before he spoke.

"You dropped your phone, Miss."

Molly glanced down at her open bag. "Oh, thank-you so much."

She managed a sad smile for him as she took her phone. He was younger than she had thought, likely no more than twenty. He had large, bright eyes and spiky black hair poking out from under a ratty wool toque. He was quite tall too and lean, very lean by the way his clothes hung off him. She'd been regularly leaving a few crisps and the odd granola bar on top of his makeshift camp but clearly, he needed more sustenance. She hoped he liked turkey sandwiches.

"Are you alright? Did that wanker in the cab give you a hard time?" He asked.

"I'm fine, it's nothing."

He winked at her. "Alright. Well, just say the word and I'll jump him next time 'e comes 'round. He looks like the type who gets 'is way more than 'e ought."

Molly's face flushed hot. "Erm, that won't be necessary. I don't think you'll see him again."

The lad grinned. His teeth were in much better condition than she would have imagined.

"I don't know 'bout that," he twitched his brows. "Offer still stands. I can pinch 'is wallet and run up a credit card bill before 'e even knew 'twas missin'. You just gimme a nod and it'll be done."

Molly shook her head. "Oh, God, please don't. Thank-you, though."

He laughed. "Go on then, get inside. These streets are no place for a lady like you."

She gave him a hard look. "They're no place for you either."

He dipped his head and smirked. "Yes, ma'am."

Then, he turned and headed towards the alley. Molly hiked her bag on her shoulder and hurried to her flat. She was past due for that cry.

Two days later, Molly was back at work but felt as if she'd been on extended leave. Everything seemed different; the hospital was too normal somehow. The activity around her seemed incongruent to the recent happenings in her life. Everyone went about their business like drones in a hive of bees.

However, she was glad to be able to return to her routine out of the way in the basement of Bart's. Even though the lights were too bright and every sound echoed to remind her of her lonely state, she could at least pass the time on automatic pilot rather than dwell on the misery of the last 48 hours.

The day before had been a nightmare. She had thought she would not hear from Sherlock but he did call. However, it had been far from a pleasant experience.

"You need to go to Bart's. Mary is scheduled for an autopsy this morning."

Molly had almost stopped breathing. "What? N-no!"

She didn't want one of the last memories of her friend to include sawing through her breastplate.

"Molly, you are the most competent pathologist at Bart's. You need to get a grip on yourself and do what is needed. You cannot recuse yourself strictly because you have . . . feelings. You need to be a professional and find out how she died."

Molly wished she had one of those old-fashioned dumbbell phones so she could smash it down several times on its cradle. She gripped her cellphone so hard she heard it creak along one of its seams.

"I am being a professional, y-you asshole! I cannot work on someone I had an emotional attachment to, it's a conflict of interest. I would be a wreck. I could miss something so don't you dare accuse me of being unprofessional. I know what that means better than you." And for good measure, she couldn't help saying it again. "Asshole!"

Sherlock had hung up then which incensed her because he denied her the satisfaction of doing so. She thought that was the end of that but then she fielded calls all day from various people. It seemed for a time she might not be given a choice and actually have to cut up her friend. Sherlock had thrown everything he had at manipulating the situation to his preferences but in the end, it was fruitless.

"Okay, Molly, you can stop worrying about this. It's out of our hands," Mike Stamford, her boss, had finally told her. "John Watson has made a written demand via a lawyer to have a different facility examine his wife. I'm sorry, Molly, he has explicitly requested that you are not to be involved in any further dealings in this matter."

That bit of news hurt, that John would single her out. "Oh. Did h-he say why?"

Mike coughed. "I cannot divulge that but Molly, off the record, stay out of this. I have let things slide when it comes to your little indulgences regarding Sherlock Holmes but I will not have this hospital sued or subjected to an inquest because of your fondness for that man. No extra tests, you understand?"

"I do. Mike, I'm sorry for all this."

"No, don't apologize. You're not the one tying up my phone on a Sunday. You coming in as scheduled tomorrow? I will understand if you need a couple days."

"I am, Mike. To be honest, I'd rather work than sit at home with my own thoughts."

So, she was back to work but despite her best efforts, her thoughts had not stayed behind at home. She was surrounded by them and every time her focus drifted from the task at hand, they elbowed in to wreak havoc on her sensibilities.

She alternated between hot and cold. One moment she could feel Sherlock's lips on her body, her nipples would tingle, the next she flinched as she recalled the chill in his eyes. Then she would think about Mary and Bethie and her vision would swim. In fact, she was having one of those moments when the lights in the lab fluttered.

She was filling out some forms at the old desktop in the back of the lab when the lights dipped again, then blacked out. The lab was plunged into darkness for several seconds, enough even for all the buzzing of the various electronic lab instruments to wind down. Molly waited a moment but the lights didn't immediately come back on. She stood up from the desk and started fumbling towards the exit. If there were a hospital-wide outage, she might be needed upstairs to help with patients.

"Crap!" She whispered into the blackness when she bumped into a counter.

The lights flared up again and the lab came to life but Molly was not alone.

"Ack!" She squealed as a figure dressed in black stood near the entrance of the lab.

"Hello there, Dr. Hooper," Sherrinford Holmes said with a slick smile. "How are you this fine day?"

Molly sprang back, too surprised to speak for a spell. Even at this distance, Sherrinford's vivid blue-eyed stare was unnerving. He reminded her a lot of Jim Moriarty in the way he seemed to reign back every movement as he made his way towards where she stood rooted. He looked around the lab with boredom. He was counting again, cataloging each piece of equipment like some sort of auditor. His eyes met hers with a squint. Some of his mannerisms were too much like his brothers, though, which strangely put her more at ease.

"Everything just as it should be," He said through his teeth. "Except for you. Ah, you've been a project, Dr. Hooper, I've been devouring everything about you."

He picked at his teeth with his pinky nail. "It's been a bit bland, however. Like stale toast without spread."

Molly pressed her lips together. She straightened and stuck her hands in her pockets. She fingered the phone in her pocket, wondering if there was a way she might surreptitiously alert Sherlock.

Sherrinford waved his hand. "No need for that, Dr. Hooper. You have nothing to worry about at present."

"It's Molly."

A crease appeared between his brows. He looked down for a second. A quiver coursed through his body.

"Molly," he ground out.

Then he was looking at her with one of his false smiles again. If he weren't so (for lack of a better word) creepy, she might be a lot more struck by his handsome face. He did look an awful lot like Mycroft but was far more arresting akin to Sherlock with well-defined cheekbones and a narrow yet manly jaw. His teeth were perfectly straight and his lips turned upwards as if he were privileged with a secret joke.

"How can I help you, Mr. Holmes?" Molly asked at last.

He was only a few feet from her then. He leaned one hip against the counter next to him and crossed his arms elegantly. She couldn't help noticing the well-manicured state of his fingers. She relaxed then. This was not a man who did anything himself, like say – strangling a pathologist in her lab.

"I just want to learn more about you, Molly," he slid closer. "You know, spend some time with you."

She laughed nervously. "Why?"

His left eye ticked. "Well, no doubt my brothers have tried to educate you about me."

"Yes, though it didn't make a lot of sense. You're some sort of . . . macro?"

Sherrinford threw back his head and laughed aloud. "Priceless, as if I could be so narrowly defined. Hmph, they really are cute sometimes."

Molly frowned. "So you're not one of these macros, Mr. Holmes, . . ."

He surprised her then by reaching forward and giving a little tug on her hair. He rolled a few follicles between his fingers before his hand dropped again. Molly felt like a culture underneath his microscope.

"A macro is a term Mycroft made up to categorize people with extraordinary gifts, like Stephen Hawkings or Andrew Wiles."

"Or Albert Einstein?"

He scoffed. "Hardly! Einstein was not a macro. He was irrational. He believed in God."

Anger stirred Molly's blood. "Why is a person irrational if they believe in God?"

Sherrinford's hand flew to his head and he sucked in a breath as he winced. "W-what are you blathering about? You can't believe in God, you're a scientist and a researcher, well, a passably competent one though your papers could use some work. You've seen death, Doctor Hooper. You know there's nothing beyond it. God doesn't exist."

Molly gritted her teeth. "How do you know?"

She watched him reach for his head again.

"I know . . ."

Molly stared him down. Sherrinford was right about one thing. She didn't believe in God, but her father had and she would be damned if she let him insult someone so dear.

"You don't know. Despite your so-called extraordinary gifts, you don't know any better than the rest of us dimwits. You've chosen to believe that for your own reasons but don't dare think yourself superior because you made that choice."

He turned his head with a crick. Frustration unravelled his calm façade. "I don't know why I am bothering to say this but no religion on earth has laid out anything even remotely coherent."

"No, but religion and faith are different, Mr. Holmes. You haven't ever proved anything yourself, have you? You haven't carried out experiments or done the research you hold in such esteem, you've relied on the information of others. How are the conclusions you draw from other people's opinions any different from a man who believes his pastor?"

"Because of what I am!"

"What's that? An ass?"

Sherrinford ran his hand through his hair, disheveling it. He intruded into Molly's space then, his breath scalded her face. He appeared ready to throttle her which made Molly shake. She shouldn't have argued with this man, truly, she didn't know him or his capacity for violence. He might just strangle her right then and there. He could even be the mastermind behind Mary's death. What had possessed her to antagonize him?

A light seemed to switch in his head and he calmed. He stepped back. "Oh, I do like this. Now I am starting to get an idea why my little brother is so smitten with you!"

She clenched her teeth. "You don't know anything."

He shook his head with apparent glee. "That's just the thing, I do know, Miss Molly, or rather I will know. It's just taking me longer to catch up. You could benefit from my, mm . . . talents."

"You should leave, really."

He rubbed his hands together. "I can give you what you want. I can give you answers."

"Not interested."

He leaned closer again. "No? You don't want to know the future, Molly Hooper? You don't want to know if you'll end up with your prince charming. Come now, what if I promised you freedom from the burden of ignorance? What would you do? What would you do differently?"

Molly trembled where she stood. "Nothing."

A crazed look widened his eyes before he clenched his fists and pressed them against his sockets.

"What?"

"Nothing. I don't want to shoulder any of your burden. Please leave, Mr. Holmes. Go start a war or something but leave me alone. I really don't matter and that is probably why you have overlooked me."

He snapped then. His hands were on her throat before she could react. However, they were vibrating. He stared down at her wild-eyed but instead of anger she saw fear. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple. He tightened his grip on her neck. She closed her eyes, tears squeezed out and ran hot down her cheeks.

"I will not tolerate this, Molly Hooper. I will not let them find a way to send me back to rot. I've dominoes set, they only need be nudged and a hell like the world has never seen will be unleashed. You tell Mycroft I will scorch this country black before I let him ensnare me again," He said hoarsely. "And let Sherlock know I will leave a trail like meteorite through his life if he keeps interfering in my plans."

Molly nodded in agreement. Sherrinford released his hold. He adjusted his suit and smoothed his hair back in place. His eyes danced over her face. He skimmed a finger along her neck where her skin felt raw and chaffed. She was almost certain his rough handling had resulted in red marks.

"I must say, Molly, this color suits you. I've never personally handled the merchandise before but I find myself liking it."